Breaking Down
by aglassofkurtscomeeverynight
Summary: Finn Hudson has always been 'That Guy". Not the brightest guy around, but incredibly likeable, and almost always happy. But, there's more to him than just that. Because Finn Hudson has a secret. Eventual Kinn, warnings for self harm.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** T for now, possible rating change later on.  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Finchel and Klaine to start, eventual Kurt/Finn.  
><strong>Chapter:<strong> 1/?  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Anything up until "First Time", more eventually.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Finn Hudson has always been 'That Guy". Not the brightest guy around, but incredibly likeable, and almost always happy. But, there's more to him than just that. Because Finn Hudson has a secret.  
>Warnings: Trigger warnings for descriptive self harm, and possible mentions of suicidesuicidal thoughts, etc.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Title taken from the song of the same name by Florence and the Machine. I'm going to say this now – this definitely isn't going to be some fluffy, happy piece, so consider yourselves warned.

_Breathe in, breathe out. _

He's scared. He hasn't felt like this in _months_. The feeling clawing at his gut terrifies him beyond belief, as it should, because he _knows_ what it means. What it'll result in. He lets out a sigh, stares up at the ceiling, flat on his back on the bed with his hands clasped over his stomach, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He thought he was past this. He thought he was _better_.

The urge is strong, bile rising in his throat as an early warning that he'll probably end up losing this fight. He wrings his hands together as a distraction, but it's not enough – his fingers itch for the blade, and he's not sure he'll be able to hold off this time.

Rolling onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow, arms at his sides, he hopes the urge will disappear, because he _can't go through this again._

He just _can't_.

… But in the end, he knows he's not strong enough.

Reaching for the blade stashed in his bedside drawer is almost instinctual by now, and Finn doesn't even recall grabbing it until he's sitting cross-legged with it hovering over his forearm, pressing the edge against the tender skin there. He doesn't cut here often, instead tending to stick to his thighs and stomach, places more easily hidden from prying eyes. But sometimes, times like tonight, those places aren't enough, and then, his arms are the only place that can do anything for him.

Running his lower lip through his teeth, he drags the edge of the razor along his arm, and the familiar feeling of clarity, of freedom and utter _calm_, washes over him. He watches the tiny beads of red grow, and the tension in his chest seeps out with the blood trickling down his forearm. The cut itself hurts, of course, but Finn shivers at the pain, soaking up the stark rush of control it gives him. _He_ did this to himself. Not Quinn. Not Santana. Not even Rachel. No one else but _him._

And _that's_ why he does it.

He stares at the thin red line, head tilting curiously. The tiny trail of blood dripping down his arm isn't enough for him, not _nearly_ enough, so he brings the blade down again, deepening the cut with each harsh stroke until he's pleased. The cut has become a gouge now, and he watches intently as the liquid pools on his pale skin before spilling over.

He wants to feel something, prays desperately for it – and really, watching yourself bleed like this _should_ make a person feel _something_, Finn reasons – but he can't. He simply feels numb, detached, like always. He runs the blade against a fresh patch of skin, drawing even more blood, and Rachel's words from earlier that evening ring through his head.

"… _I can't wait a couple weeks… have to get this done before opening night…" _

He bites hard on his bottom lip as he makes a third cut, followed by a fourth, and by the time he's finally worn himself out he's made eleven marks, each as deep as the first, and _god_, his arm is a mess. But, in some fucked-up way, Finn finds it kind of beautiful.

… For all of ten seconds, before the crippling feeling of disappointment and disgust takes over. And when it does, it takes all of his strength not to empty the contents of his stomach across his bedspread.

Somehow, he makes it across the hall and into the bathroom without vomiting, and he takes great comfort in the knowledge that his mom and Burt are out campaigning for the evening, so he won't be disturbed. An old, ratty flannel shirt he's relegated for this use stems the flow of blood until he can reach the sink, where he runs his wrist under the water and sighs, the murky pink liquid swirling slowly down the drain. He squirts some hand soap into his palm and cleans the dried blood from around the cuts – and when some of it comes into contact with his wounds, he considers the stinging punishment for being so weak in the first place. He dries arm on his old shirt, and rummages around for the first aid kit he knows is nearby, pulling out a few large pieces of gauze and pressing them to the cuts. He secures them with a bandage and some medical tape, and it's a shoddy job, but it's better than nothing.

Once he's done, and he's run the blade under the tap to rinse it off, Finn leans against the counter and stares at his reflection. The white of the bandage is harsh against his skin, and his stomach clenches as he stares at it. _He_ did that to himself, hurt himself, gave into that goddamn urge, and the same thing that made him feel so powerful, so in _control_, mere minutes ago only makes him feel like he's not in control at all now.

He feels disgusting. And there's nothing he can do about that.

He makes his way back to his room, stowing the bloody flannel under his bed to be dealt with later, before wandering to his closet and sifting aimlessly through the t-shirts and puffy vests inside. He yanks a grey hoodie off a hanger, tugging it over his head and making sure it hides the bandages well enough. He's pretty sure it's still obvious, but he knows he can just make up some alibi about hurting himself during football practice and no one will question him. One of the perks of being clumsy, he supposes.

Too exhausted to do much more at the moment, he flops onto his bed, barely having the energy to tug the comforter over himself so he doesn't freeze. He curls into a ball under the blankets, drawing them up to his chin, and lets the familiar feeling of disappointment wash over him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: T for now, though I'm not sure if this should be M. If so, someone tell me and I'll change it.  
>Pairings: Finchel and Klaine to start, eventual KurtFinn.  
>Chapter: 2?  
>Spoilers: Anything up until "First Time", more eventually.<br>Summary: Finn Hudson has always been 'That Guy". Not the brightest guy around, but incredibly likeable, and almost always happy. But, there's more to him than just that. Because Finn Hudson has a secret.  
>Warnings: Trigger warnings for descriptive self harm, and, in this chapter, major thoughtsattempts of suicide.  
>Author's Note: Wow, it's been a while since I wrote some of this fic, hasn't it? At least a year, I think. But chapter two's finally up and finished - considering I rewrote and changed ideas for this chapter so much, I'm shocked I ever finished it. As said in the last chapter, definitely not a happy story just yet, and probably won't be super happy in the future either, but I'm kind of proud of it so I hope you enjoy either way. Also, a little bit of... not really Rachel <em>bashing<em>, but more like... Rachel not being painted in the best light. So if you're a Rachel stan, you might not wanna continue. :P

* * *

><p>It's been the most stressful week of Finn's life, he thinks.<p>

He goes to school the day after his date with Rachel exhausted, bags under his eyes and wrist _throbbing_. Another baggy sweatshirt covers the bandages, but even so, he walks through the halls and just feels like everyone can tell, can see through the thick fabric and the gauze and see the cuts, the old, faint scars littered there as well. He feels transparent, exposed, and it's not a feeling he's comfortable with.

Rachel doesn't stop him in school at all that day – they don't even see each other except for briefly in the halls, but she doesn't even notice him. He knows she's preoccupied with the musical, knows that she's spending every free moment, even the spare minutes in between her classes, practicing for her long-desired role of Maria, but it still stings just a bit when she doesn't even pause to give him a brief hello.

Finn knows he shouldn't feel that way – after their failed date, he's still upset with Rachel, upset that she would try to sleep with him just to make her a more convincing actress. He knows she didn't mean it to hurt him. Rachel's just like that, putting herself first and only realizing it isn't right when she upsets others. And he knows that, but he still can't forgive her yet.

Still, he thought… That maybe, she'd apologize. Say something to him to explain. But she doesn't.

He doesn't have much time to think about her anyways, though. With the recruiter coming in less than a week, most of _his_ time is spent out on the field, working himself until his bones ache and his muscles cry for a break, knowing that he needs this, needs to get this.

His wrist stings every time he throws the ball to a teammate, every time he tackles someone, or even just _moves_, but this is so important that he pushes the pain to the back of his mind.

Every night, he comes home and worries. He lays in bed, mind filled with thoughts of the game, of how this is it, his big moment. It's a welcome distraction, albeit a stressful one, but while he waits for that night to come, cutting doesn't even cross his mind. Honestly, he has much more to focus on at the moment, and he throws himself completely into everything to distract himself.

His practices go by in a blur, opening night of the play comes and goes – he goes to watch, for Rachel, and she is just as spectacular as he expects her to be – and then without warning, the day of the big game is there.

Finn expects it to be just like every day between him and Rachel since their little fight, but for the first time in a week, she approaches him, smiling at him nervously. "Tonight's the big night, isn't it?" She asks him softly, and he nods, biting his lip. She knows it is, she's just making small talk, but it's good to talk to her again.

"Good luck, Finn," She says, steps forward and wraps her arms around his body. He knows she won't be able to watch him play – it's closing night, it's important to Rachel, she _has_ to be there – and that's okay. Just her wishing him luck is good enough.

He's still angry with her, but that doesn't mean he hates her.

"I'll give you a call once the performance is over, alright?" She tells him, and he nods, and with a smile she flounces off down the hallway, off to her next class. And he smiles, because he can't wait to talk to her that night.

He gives his all out on that field, playing with a passion he'd never felt before, and he is _sure_ that he's made it. How could he not have made it, when he played like that?

The recruiter doesn't even give him a second look, though. He waits in that locker room, thinking to himself that _no, he hasn't forgotten you, Finn. He's just talking to Shane, and then he's going to come for you, too._ He almost makes himself believe it, and when the recruiter walks over to him, there's a small flash of hope. But it's obvious he's not interested in Finn – No, Shane's a _monster_, a _beast_, and Finn just isn't good enough. Isn't what they're looking for right now.

Finn can almost see his entire life come to a crashing halt around him.

"_Just because your football career ends in high school, doesn't mean your life does…"_

That's what he hears running through his mind that night. He doesn't even remember getting home, not really – he cried the entire way, he knows that, and it's surprising he even made it home all in one piece.

Finn doesn't even make it further than the living room. Flopping down on the couch, he grabs one of the pillows and clutches it, as if it's able to ground him somehow. It hurts, _so much_ – this feeling of rejection, of not being good enough. He's familiar enough with that feeling as it is, but not to this magnitude. He already knows he sucks at things like math and English – numbers have never been his thing, and he's tried his best at English but still can only seem to scrounge up a C- – but football? He's always been good at football. He's been the quarterback since freshman year, one of the few good players on the team. He thought this was it, that this would be his calling.

And all of a sudden, it's gone. The recruiter stated clearly – he wasn't wanted, his career was over before it had even started.

He's finished.

Finn can't take it. He's overwhelmed, crying so hard he can't breathe, and all he wants is to make the feeling go away. To his dismay, but certainly not his surprise, the urge is back in full force, and it's never been this strong before. It freaks him out. A lot. He claws at his arms, scratching at them in a desperate attempt to do _something_. His arm just ends up red and covered in welts, and it does nothing aside from make him wish he'd done more. He wants to feel something other than this wholly overwhelming feeling of _notgoodenough _engulfing him, so without a second thought, he bolts to his room, throwing open drawers and finding his blade.

Settling on the floor at the foot of his bed, Finn is almost on autopilot when he starts, unraveling the bandage carefully pinned around his wrist in one swift tug and drawing the razor across his flesh without a second thought. He doesn't think, just does, slice after slice after slice torn into his arm. The blood trickles down and stains blotches in his pants, his shirt, and he knows in the back of his mind that he'll have to explain that somehow, but his mind doesn't tell him to stop. His wrist turns into a bloodied mess of lines zig-zagged across his skin, some deep, some not so much. But each one just gets worse, Finn taking everything out on himself, because this is it. He's done, finished, he can't take this anymore.

He's _done_.

Not for the first time in his life, Finn considers just… Giving up. Ending it all. But unlike anytime before, it's not just some fleeting thought, something that disappears as quickly as it'd shown up. No, this time, it's serious. He's been miserable for years now, keeping up that façade of being "okay" and hoping no one sees through it. No one has, and maybe, no one will ever have to. Maybe, ending it now _would_ be for the best. What does he have to live for now, anyways? A crappy job flipping burgers for the rest of eternity, if even that? Shame, at being the Lima Loser everyone's made him out to be since freshman year? He has _nothing_. So why not?

It would hurt a lot less to just finish it now, before it gets worse.

So, he holds the blade up, hands shaking as he stares at his bloodied arm. Absently, he wonders where Rachel is. If she's even thinking about him right now. She had promised to call him after the performance, but Finn knows it was over hours ago – it's getting close to eleven, way too late for it to still be going. Like always, Rachel comes first – he expects she's probably out with Artie and the rest of the cast, drinking non-alcoholic champagne and celebrating a play well done. Does she even remember that she promised to call? Does he even matter to her? He wonders if he ever really did, or if he was just a trophy for her to show off, someone she could have sex with to make her a better actress.

The more he thinks about it, the more sure he is that yes, he was. How could he have been stupid enough to not see that before?

He wants to scream. He needs her, more in this moment than he's ever needed her before. Needs her to follow through and call, do _something_ to stop him from going through with this, but she's not there. No, his phone sits in his pocket, message-less and silent, not a peep from his girlfriend. There's no one to stop him, no one to talk him out of this, not even Rachel.

And, to be honest, a sick part of him is glad. No one cares now, and they won't when he's gone, either.

As he brings the blade to rest against his wrist, he's taken by a sort of calm. He isn't crying anymore, instead breathing deeply, almost relaxed. _One quick cut, and it'll all be over_, he thinks, his mind clear for the first time in what feels like forever. _One quick cut…_

_Ding!_

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Finn yelps out a shocked cry and drops the blade, heart pounding.

_Ding!_

It's more insistent this time, and with shaking hands he grabs his phone, fumbling to unlock it and reading the message on the screen. A tiny part of him thinks _maybe it's Rachel, maybe she _does_ care, _but of course, it isn't.

Who it is, though, is much more important.

_Kurt Hummel: Finn? Are you there?_

_Kurt Hummel: How'd your game go? _

Kurt. It's Kurt. His stepbrother, Kurt, texting him to ask how his game went while Finn's in the middle of a breakdown. Kurt, _caring_, wanting to see what happened, to be there for him no matter what.

Kurt, the boy that he nearly left behind just now.

And suddenly, the reality of what he was about to do hits him as he stares at the metal resting on the floor – he'd been seconds away from actually ending his life, from slashing his wrists and bleeding out on his bedroom floor, leaving his mom to find him in the morning when she came home, seeing her only son dead on the rug, leaving Kurt to deal with the aftermath of his suicide. He'd almost killed himself. He'd almost _died_.

It doesn't take long for the panic to set in. He can't breathe again, chokes on his own tongue and scrambles back away from the blade, phone still in his hand, bloody fingerprints drying on the screen. This, Finn thinks, is what an actual breakdown feels like, chest tightening and his head swimming, too much going on too soon. He feels ready to pass out, and before he knows it, he's hitting the 'Call' button under Kurt's name, pressing the device to his ear and squeezing his eyes shut. _Please pick up, please pick up, please-_

"Hello?"

Kurt's voice is soft, calm, almost sleepy, even. So different to what Finn's feeling that it nearly makes him cry even harder. Because Kurt honestly has no idea what's going on. Not yet, at least – as far as he knows, Finn is only calling to discuss the game, give him the news about the recruiter. There is no way Kurt's expecting this, that he's expecting what's actually going on with him right now, and Finn almost doesn't want to break it to him.

"Finn? Are you there? _Helloooo_?"

But he has to. "_Kurt_," he chokes out, hiccupping through the single syllable.

"… Finn? What's wrong?" And Kurt can tell, Finn knows it, can tell that something

is _seriously_ wrong, but there's still that tiny bit of hope in Kurt's voice, a silent wish that maybe he's just overreacting.

"I…" And how can he explain this over the phone? There's no way, there's too much, he just _can't_. He just needs Kurt, because he was _so close_, so close to ending it all, needs him here right now in front of him and… "I'm so _scared_, Kurt," He cries, choking on his own words. "I… I need you, _please_…"

There's a shuffling sound on the phone, like Kurt's getting up, and Finn curls onto his side in the fetal position, clutching the phone to his ear. He hears Kurt ask if he's at home, and he nods until he remembers that Kurt can't see him before he whimpers out a quiet 'yes'. "Okay, okay," Kurt says, his voice up an octave in fear, and he hears him call out to Blaine, explaining to a probably confused boy that he has to go. "I'll be there as soon as possible, Finn, you'll be alright?"

He whimpers again in confirmation, and Kurt stays on the line for a few more moments until he tells Finn he's going to be driving, that he'll be home soon, just stay calm. The line goes dead, and Finn clutches the phone to his chest, sobs only growing in intensity. He has to remind himself that even though he hung up, he's coming back, that Kurt isn't leaving him, that he's not alone this time. That Kurt is coming to help.

Finn tries to count the minutes until he gets there but he loses count, and before he knows it the front door is opening before slamming shut behind Kurt, his footsteps pounding through the house. "Finn?" He calls, voice frantic, hysterical. "Finn, where are you?"

He must hear Finn, because soon his footsteps are approaching, thudding up the stairs. With each thump, Finn's stomach twists, because each footstep brings Kurt closer to finding him. To seeing him like this, finding out what Finn has been hiding for close to two years.

When his door swings open, Finn doesn't even have to see Kurt's face to see how shocked he is.

And Finn doesn't blame him – the last time Kurt saw him, he was normal-smiling-happy-Finn, preparing to win the football game and working on a solo for Glee. Compare that to Finn now, a sobbing mess on the floor with a slashed-up arm, a blade resting on the ground beside him and what happened starkly obvious to anyone looking in on the scene, Finn really doesn't blame him for being shocked. And then Kurt starts crying, a shaky litany of 'oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_'s streaming from his lips as he kneels beside Finn. His eyes dart around, from his arm to his face and everything in between, and he ends up taking the blade and tossing it as far from them as possible, hands stroking Finn's hair, his shoulders, every bit of him he can reach. He keeps talking, keeps stroking, telling Finn he's okay, they're okay, everything will _be okay_ in a voice that's so shaky that it's hard to even understand, and the thing that Finn wishes more than anything is that Kurt didn't have to see this, see him like this.

But he's alive. Kurt is here, he isn't alone, and he is _alive._

In this moment, that's all that matters.


End file.
